Forging the Prima Donna
by Hymn Angelic
Summary: I played the role of Prima Donna for so long. Is it any wonder I become one?


Forging the Prima Donna

By Hymn Angelic

_"Remember, Carlotta, you cannot be yourself. The theater is about pretending…you must pretend, Carlotta love, or you will never survive." Those were the final words and the last lesson my instructor gave me as she left me standing on the steps of the Opéra Populaire. I followed them, all my life. I formed a persona, an act so that no one could see the real me. But it did not take long for me to become who I pretended to be: the Prima Donna._

I was born in a small town in Italy. Not even a town, really. Just a collection of homes and farms. My mother died when I was very young. My father was a farmer. He raised goats. He never missed an opportunity to remind me how lucky I was to have him. He constantly made sure I couldn't forget that I would have nothing without him. I was not a very pretty girl, according to him, with no talents, no personality, nothing a man might find attractive. If not for the lure of his prosperous farm, I would never find a husband. This he assured me day after day as I grew up.

The only bright spot in my monotonous life was when a traveling carnival might happen to stop for rest on their way to a real city. I was enamored with the performers, and dreamed of a day when I might be like them. Of course, when I dared mention this to Father, he laughed loudly in my face. I could do nothing of use or entertainment, he repeated. I was worthless.

But I refused to believe that. I did not want to be a worthless farmer's daughter who grew up, became a worthless farmer's wife, and died an unhappy, unmemorable woman. I needed more than that. So the summer I turned fourteen, when the acrobats and jugglers left, I followed. I walked away from the only place I had ever known and never once looked back.

I trailed along after them for a few days, until they stopped in another village. Then I came forward to them with my desire to join their ranks. I expected to be scolded, and possibly urged to go home. But they didn't care. The leader, a very thin man named Paolo who made balls disappear under scarves, asked me what it was I could do. I was terrified, but I forced myself to look down my nose at him, even as I stared skyward. I asked him who he thought he was to question "the great Carlotta". He laughed, and told me if I had an act for the show that night, and the audience enjoyed it, I was more than welcome to be part of the company.

I had no idea what to do. I had no special talents or skills, certainly nothing that would entertain an audience. Paolo probably knew that, too. When I look back on that day, I do not think of how happy I was to be free of my father or how frightened I was to try and prove myself. The thing that stands out most clearly in my mind was the effect my faux-arrogance had on the rest of the troupe. It was then that I realized it was not the skill that mattered. Skill was important, of course, but not the most important. What was really significant was how you displayed yourself.

So before the show that night, I dug through the trunks of costumes and found the most garish and outlandish dress I could. I pulled a large and hideous hat onto my head and put on far too much makeup. I looked like a fool. But when Paolo called out my name, I strutted on stage as though I was the most beautiful thing in the universe. I sang, too. I don't remember what song. I know I didn't sing it very well, but I sang it as loudly as I could. And when I was finished I glared imperiously down at the dumbstruck audience. It was perfectly silent and I feared I would be abandoned here, with no way to support myself. There was no way I was going home. Then, one man started to laugh and applaud. In a matter of moments, the applause as well as the laughter rippled through the audience until they all were clapping madly.

I took several dramatic looking curtsies, then pranced off-stage. I was flushed (not that you could tell under all the makeup I had on), and my heart was beating very hard. But when I got off the stage back to where the other performers were sitting in silent shock, I sniffed and pointed my nose in the air. "The great Carlotta never fails to impress."

I traveled with that company for two years, putting on my act of the spoiled star. Paolo even began introducing me as "the great Carlotta" and most of the other performers referred to me as such. It was all in fun, though. We all became very fond of each other. I probably would have stayed with them until I was too old to act any longer, except Senora discovered me when I came to her town. After the show, she pulled me aside and told me that with my voice, I could reach much greater heights than a traveling carnival if I worked hard.

The idea of true greatness seduced me, and I followed her willingly away from my friends and the family I had created. Senora taught me how to control my voice. I was never a remarkable talent, but I made up for the flaws in my voice with an astounding level of style and power. I also had a "very impressive" range, as Senora told me as I studied. "You are gifted, Carlotta love, but you must use it" She scolded me constantly. I'm still not sure how she managed to both inflate my ego and puncture it with a single comment. Or why I stayed strong through all the abuse she put me through. But I did.

I began as a chorus girl in several small productions in the general area. However, the managers soon came to fear me. I was the girl who could never blend in with the others, whose voice would soar above all the others, eclipsing them and making herself the focus of all attention. Whenever they would try to criticize me, I would throw a well-choreographed fit. It worked, just like it had worked with Paolo and the travelers. They began giving me bit parts and solos just to calm me and keep me from stealing the spotlight from the other girls. Of course, I loved the limelight more dearly than the light of the sun itself. I sang out of turn, too loudly, too dramatically. I was an all-around nightmare, but they kept giving me progressively larger parts, passing up more talented singers in favor of maintaining order.

Finally, Senora told me there was a new opera house opening in Paris. They would need a lead. My dream come true. The leading roles were all I had ever grasped for. So Senora and I traveled out of my home country, into France. We reached the fledgling Opera Populaire, and, straightening my hat and putting on my best pout, I strode through the ornate doors into my stardom.

I acted like a monster. I can admit it. I acted as though the part was already mine, and that I was being inconvenienced by even the manager himself. It worked. It always worked. The very first production held in the Opera Populaire…my haughty face stared down from the poster at all the patrons as they filed in. To think: I was on a poster outside a Paris opera house. Quite a leap for the useless daughter of a goat farmer.

After the first performance, when it was declared that I was a hit, a real star, that's when Senora left me, delivering to me that poisonous wisdom. I cemented my wicked and superior act, never dropping it for a second, lest someone might see who I really was, catch my weaknesses and destroy me. After a while…I found that even when I was alone in my room, I simply could not stop acting. Sometimes when an actress plays the same part for so long, she begins to think like the character. I lost Carlotta. I became the diva I had pretended I was for so long. I had made a living out of acting like a Prima Donna. Was it any surprise I became one?

It was at Opera Populaire when I first met Piangi. He annoyed me. This unfriendly little man who dared to poke fun at me, to doubt my genius. Because by that time, I had begun to really believe that I was a true musical genius, not just playing the role of one. But after a while, he grew on me. I grew to love him very much. I believe he loved me as well. When I saw his cold, lifeless body lying in the curtains, it broke my heart. For the first time in years, my shell cracked. I was myself again for a few moments. My grief had freed my secret mind at last.

Now the Opera is closed. Burned and gone, I am out of a job. But, who am I fooling? I was out of a job when Christine Daaé first sang for the new managers. She had real talent, talent I could only pretended to have. I refused to admit it, or to see the truth in front of my eyes. The only thing that kept my career after she came on stage was Andre and Firmin's passion for defying the Phantom.

The Phantom. The cold villain who murdered my beloved. He favored Christine, why, I know not. But it does not matter. Piangi is gone, the Opera Populaire is dead. I suppose I must move on to a new opera house. I'm sure I could find one. Become a heartless diva again, viciously pursuing roles. I could probably get another role just for the doubtful honor of being present during the terribly accidents at the Opera Populaire. Perhaps I could get a bonus for actually being the butt of one the Phantom's vile jokes. But the stage is not as alluring to me anymore. I focused my attention on the theater to escape from a life I did not want. But now, the theater and tragedy have been tied together inexorably in my heart.

I might go home now. Where is home? Paris, where I have lived for so many years? The thin and creaky house I lived in with Senora while I learned to control my voice? Or the tiny village where I was born? It might not even be a village anymore. The years have been long, and many changes have come to pass elsewhere, so why not there? But I do not think I could return to my birthplace again. Not after all that has happened. So what happens now? I am too old now to marry and live the life of a wife and mother, and even if I was still young and fresh, I do not have the heart now that Piangi is dead. Do I live alone in the darkness, closing my eyes to remember the days of light I once had? Perhaps. There is nothing left I have not done and wish to do. Few lives have held as much excitement and, oppositely, torment as mine.

Carlotta. Diva, Prima Donna, Goat Farmer's Daughter. What mask can I put on now? My life has been a masquerade. Life to life, mask to mask. Who am I, underneath it all? I am not sure which part to play. But there is one thing I decide now…I am Carlotta: Prima Donna no more.

Fin


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